End of an Exile
by Dextrous
Summary: It's been near to a decade since anyone from Feänor's previous life as a Dragonborn has seen him. He likes it that way. But the half-elf's self-imposed exile comes to a close when those from his past refuse to let him disappear again. Eventual MDragonborn/Ysolda MDragonborn/Aela simultaneously, because why not? Mild offensive language. Rating may change.
1. Not Just Some Merchant

**Hello everyone!**  
**Thank you in advance for reading my Skyrim fanfiction! Wot wif this being the first time I've ever published something on the internet land, reviews and constructive criticisms are welcomed with open arms. This does not have an end in sight as far as initial drafting goes, so remember to hit follow if you enjoy! Cheers,**  
**Dextrous**

Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls. All intellectual rights go to Bethesda Softworks.

* * *

It did not matter that he had lived in Skyrim for years now; the cloaked man never tired of the Aurora Borealis. The way it curtained the night sky in brilliant hues of every colour always made him feel composed, gave him the illusion of feeling at peace, before reality settled in once more._ 'And what a bleak reality it is,'_ he thought, with an empty half-smile invisible beneath the folds of his hood. _'How very pessimistic of me.'_

Looking up into the sky, he judged by the position of the two moons that it was just after midnight as he came upon the imposing mass of Whiterun, the sprawling capital city of the Hold for which it was named. The peaked roof of the citadel, Dragonsreach, stood out as a dark shape against the vivid colours the of the aurora in the sky. Knowing that the city would be closed for the night and guards on alert, the hooded man began to move with less speed and more stealth. He faded into the shadows of the rugged plains that Whiterun was famed for, coming to a halt as the city loomed ever closer. Unconsciously clenching his jaw, he kneeled down as he planned his route up to the city walls  
He took note of the weary circuit the guards followed, knowing that fatigue - and those ungainly, vision-obstructing helmets - would make his approach far more difficult to mark from the walls. Growing used to the rhythm of the guards' patrol, his keen eyes took in the broken section of wall that was closest to the ground. It provided plenty of foot and handholds, as well as cover for when the guards would circle back around during their patrol. After visualizing the whole entrance in his mind - and grunting in satisfaction when he imagined pulling it off without a hitch - he made his move.

* * *

The Bannered Mare - Whiterun

The Bannered Mare was generally a quiet and respectable inn, run by 'Old Hulda,' as the locals affectionately referred to her as. She was getting on in years, her once brown hair now graying steadily. Despite all her claims that she was tiring of running the inn, she never quite seemed to end up selling the joint, and everyone in Whiterun always had a good word for her and the Mare. Most of the people running stands in the market would head into the Mare for a drink or two as the sun set.

The famed Companions would regularly come down from Jorrvaskr to tell a story or two in the evenings, whilst sharing in the mead. It was also known for the fact that the Dragonborn had often visited years ago, and had used to tell stories with the Companions - whom he was Harbinger of. There had always been a sparkle in the half-elf's eye as he told tale after tale of his adventures. One of the local favourites was when he had participated in a drinking contest in the Bannered Mare with none other than Sanguine, the Daedric Prince of Debauchery. How he had woken up in the Markarth Temple of Dibella with a very potent hangover was a matter of debate to this day.

While the Dragonborn had stopped visiting the Mare with his sudden disappearance nearly 10 years previously, the Companions always came down on Loredas to continue their chronicles. This particular night, the Bannered Mare was packed as Vilkas - acting-Harbinger of the Companions - his brother Farkas, and fellow Companion Torvar were recounting the sack of Fort Greymoor by the Companions.

"The mighty oaken doors were barred from the inside to deny us, and even then we could hear the taunts of the scum inside. "Nay!" they cried, "Even with an army, these doors would stand strong!"" Vilkas recited, with all the skill of a veteran storyteller. ""Nay?" we mocked back, as the Dragonborn strode forth, staring up at the towering entrance. It was then that the world hushed itself, as if great Skyrim and all her living things were holding their breaths at once. The one sound that dared disturb the hush: the crunch of gravel underfoot as the Dragonborn readied himself. Then all at once with a great roar, the Thu'um ripped itself free of his throat, and the once proud postern was smote asunder." The patrons of the Mare all bellowed their approval, stamping feet and clanking tankards together. Vilkas grinned, and used the moment to take another swig from his tankard. At one of the corner tables, Ysolda and Lydia joined in the chorus of cheering before sinking back into their seats, giggling to one another. Considering the mess of empty mead bottles on their table, it was fair to assume that they were more than a little drunk.

Turning to face Ysolda, Lydia pointed a shaking finger at the Nord merchant, who cocked her head and looked at her with squinted eyes. "I! I… uh, I… hm," Lydia began, swaying in her seat as she reached for the words that seemed to be just out of reach. Squinting in concentration for a moment, her face cleared up suddenly, "I woss there!" she slurred triumphantly.

Ysolda peered at her in complete astonishment for a moment, before narrowing her eyes again. "I don't believe you," she articulated carefully, in all the tones of someone who knew they had ingested far too much alcohol. "I think you're drunk!" she declared. Lydia rolled her eyes and snorted at the accusation, before a thought suddenly flashed across her liquor-addled brain.

"Maybe you're right," she murmured thoughtfully, eyes crossed in deep concentration.

* * *

Whiterun

The cloaked man snickered in triumph as he successfully scaled the broken section of wall, leaping down silently onto the inside road that ran parallel with the wall. Eyes quickly darting around, double checking that he was alone, the man snorted in satisfaction again before beginning to stride down the street towards the marketplace.

Now all he needed to do was walk with confidence. If you walked as if you had every right to be here, near everyone would leave you be, he had found. He smirked under his hood as he strode right past a guard who didn't even bother to look twice. _'My point exactly… wait. Who am I trying to convince?'_ he suddenly thought, frowning. One of the disadvantages of travelling alone was the lack of someone to talk to. Oftentimes, he ended up talking to himself, holding elaborate conversations in his head.

As he entered the market square - the sound of snoring coming from a sleeping guard, who was propped up against the wall of 'Arcadia's Cauldron' - his eyes glanced up at the Bannered Mare, the sounds of merriment just faintly reaching his ears. Jaw clenched once more, the man debated with himself for a moment. 'To Oblivion with it,' he decided. Quickly striding up the stairs leading to the inn, he opened the door a crack, just enough to get through, and slid in quietly.

The warmth hit him immediately, and he quietly shut the door behind him. Very few people noticed his entrance, those who did quickly turning their attention back to the man who was telling a tale with all the skill of a bard. The hooded man's hard eyes softened slightly as he recognised the three Companions, as well as a few of the other occupants of the room.

He was about to make his way towards the bar when he felt someone's eyes glued to the back of his head. Sharply turning his head towards the source of the scrutiny, his eyes widened slightly when he recognised the two women who occupied the corner table. The one who had her back to him was clad in simple steel plate-armour, with long raven-black hair flowing down the back of her chestplate. The other wore the simple blue dress of a commoner, and had fairly short brown hair. Her attractive brown eyes were the source of the scrutiny, and she jumped as his gaze met hers, her face reddening immensely. The hooded man chuckled quietly as Ysolda quickly ducked her head in embarrassment. Shaking his head slightly, he began moving toward the bar.

* * *

The Bannered Mare - Whiterun

A sudden crisp gust of wind caressed Ysolda's arm and she shivered slightly, looking up to see where it had come from. A cloaked and hooded person - man by the width of those shoulders - had entered the inn quietly, barely opening the door far enough for him to squeeze through. His entire body was clothed, and his face covered by a hood. Oddly, his face was unnaturally shadowed. The only thing Ysolda could pick out in the darkness were two gleaming hazel eyes, even though he was facing the firepit in the centre of the room. Ysolda frowned to herself as she stared at the man, who was slowly gazing predatorily at the crowd of people - much like a sabre cat would do toward a herd of deer. He was quite tall and well built, standing above most of the crowd, and his upper body and arms were heavily muscled. Although she couldn't quite place it, Ysolda felt like she had seen the man before somewhere - although her mead-muddled mind was not very keen to do anything but just _gawk_ at those _muscles_.

She stared for a few more moments, before jumping as the mans head whirled around to glare directly at her. He held her in his intense gaze for a few more moments - her drunk side just _drowning_ in those _gorgeous_ eyes - before she suddenly snapped back to the present. Realizing that she had been staring, Ysolda's face flushed with heat and she suddenly looked down at her lap. _'What was I thinking staring at him like that!?'_ Her eyes flicked up one last time, and she swore she saw a sparkle of amusement in his gaze. _'Now he's laughing at me,'_ she thought, feeling slightly hurt at being the subject of his mirth. He began to move away from the doorway now, slowly but firmly pushing his way through the throng towards the bar.

Ysolda found herself rather sober now, but she snickered a little as she noticed that Lydia was mouthing words to herself. Clearly the ex-housecarl was thinking hard, her brow creased in concentration. Only a moment later, Ysolda found herself inexorably drawn to study the strange man again.

Catching sight of him leaning over the bar between the crowds of people, she watched as he dropped several coins into Hulda's open palm, gesturing towards the top-floor room. Hulda nodded, and disappeared behind the wall as she went to fetch something. Satisfied, the man turned around again and started to listen in on the tale Vilkas was telling. Ysolda was surprised when he cocked his head slightly while listening. _'I know that man, I'm sure of it. If only he didn't have that bloody hood on.'_

Biting her lip in frustration, it was to her great chagrin that he looked towards her, and caught her gaze. Again. While the first time he seemed to find her scrutiny amusing, now he seemed a bit wary as he moved back slightly, stony hazel orbs suddenly avoiding her. She jumped - again! - as Lydia cleared her throat and looked towards her with great amusement.

"Eyeing up the goods, eh?" she snorted, clearly entertained by her observation, and Ysolda's scarlet cheeks.

"No!" Ysolda defended, slightly appalled at the way the word had squeaked out, and her own behaviour. "I just… know that I recognise him somewhere," she mumbled, in a stronger tone of voice.

Lydia examined the man for a moment, before shrugging and downing the rest of her mead. Slamming the vessel down on the table, Lydia beamed triumphantly at her sixth tankard downed before slumping onto the table unconscious. Ysolda snickered again at her friend's sudden incapacitation. She twisted her head towards the centre of the room again, and noticed that the hooded man was now entering his room on the second floor. Glancing between Lydia and the drunken crowd for a moment, she shrugged as she got up and let Lydia lie. _'Anybody fool enough to try and lighten her purse will find themselves missing fingers, whether she's in a drunken stupor or not.'_

Making her way across the room, firmly rejecting Mikael's slurred advances, she began to climb the creaky steps up to the now occupied room, determined to find out just where she knew this man from. Hesitating at the door - _'What are you doing!?'_ - Ysolda steeled herself - _'You won't know him!'_ - before gently pushing the door open._ 'Now you've done it.'_

* * *

The man thanked Hulda gruffly, then moved into his room._ 'Nothing's changed, has it?'_ he thought, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. The wall hangings above the bed were still the same, and there was the obligatory wheel of cheese on the dresser. As he stood there taking in his surroundings, his mind was drawn back to Ysolda's study of him.

His smirk slowly faded, replaced with a frown. He had caught her staring at him twice, whilst chewing her lip in distraction - a small, quiet part of his mind had always found that mildly adorable. The first time had been nothing more than the idle glance of the mildly drunk, but the second time, her eyes had a curious light to them. That was dangerous. If she had recognised him, Talos forbid, he would have been in serious trouble. He hadn't spent years incognito just to be discovered by some Nordic merchant in an inn._ 'She's not just "some merchant",'_ he snapped to himself irritably, slightly bewildered by his sudden defence of the girl.

Lost in his thoughts, the man found himself caught completely unawares when Ysolda stepped into his room. _'Well, shit.'_ For someone who prided himself on his awareness and reflexes, he was severely disappointed he hadn't heard her walk up the steps. She peered at him for a moment, before visibly shaking herself.

"Um, ah… sorry for barging in like this," she began, clearly flustered, "but I thought you were someone I, uh, recognised." She had a hesitant look on her face, clearly taken aback by her lack of restraint when she had waltzed into his room unannounced. They regarded each other quietly, and then she took a step towards him. Beginning to panic, he took a quick step back, and bumped into the bed. _'Bugger,'_ he thought angrily to himself; now he had nowhere to back off to. He had never been this sloppy before!

Seemingly unaware of his uneasiness, Ysolda took another trancelike step forward, her eyes glazed and faraway. She slowly raised her arm to the edge of his hood, absent-mindedly chewing her lip once more. _'Step away! Move her hand! Anything, do anything!'_ his mind screamed at him. But he somehow couldn't, his hazel eyes locked with her brown ones. In one quick motion, Ysolda tossed the hood back off of his head. The moment it came off, the shadows over his face fled, and she clapped her hands to her mouth in complete and utter shock.

His hair, a deep brown flecked with grey, hung down to his shoulders. Four braids were weaved in, two on each side. His ears were only slightly pointed - too little for an elf, too much for a man - marking him as a half-elf. Fading and cracked brown warpaint flowed down his nose and underneath his narrow hazel eyes, contrasting with the fair, worn skin of his face.

Feänor- half-elf, Harbinger of the Companions of Jorrvaskr, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Legate of the Imperial Army, slayer of Alduin the World Eater, Miraak, the First Dragonborn and the Dovahkiin, Dragonborn of prophecy - had his decade of self-imposed exile suddenly come to an abrupt end.

Exhaling a breath he didn't realise he was holding, Feänor returned her stunned gaze with a casual, relaxed smirk. Not that he felt at all relaxed, _'Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot...'_ but she didn't need to know that. They stood in silence for a moment, before Ysolda let out a pitiful whimper. Feänor snickered quietly on the outside. On the inside though, his brain went into overdrive. _'How in Oblivion do I get out of this!?' _


	2. Drugs and Sleeping Draughts

**Hello readers, readettes and other variations of 'reader,' real and fake alike, I'm back with the second chapter!  
****For those of you interested in Feänor, here are some factoids:**

**1) The name is inspired by the character of the same name in J.R.R Tolkien's "The Silmarillion."**

**2) Feänor (pronounced Fay-uh-nor) in the Silmarillion is a badass elf with black hair who created pretty jewels and did some morally questionable stuff to get them back from Morgoth, who's even more badass than Sauron.**

**3) The Sil-muh-rillion is Tolkien's precursor to The Lord of the Rings. It's even more precursorier than the Hobbit, wot wif the Silmarillion being set during the First Age of Middle Earth. It essentially encompasses the lore and ancient history of Tolkien's world.**

**4) Feänor's name was originally going to be Fingolfin, (Feänor's eldest half-brother in Sil.) then Finarfin (Feänor's youngest half-brother in Sil.) and then Fingon. (Fingolfin's eldest son) Then I decided that I liked Feänor more. **

**5) I get the ä by holding ALT then pressing 132 on the numpad.**

**Wow, long author's note. On with the story!**

**Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls isn't mine**. **Neither is Middle-Earth, the Silmarillion, or the name Feänor.**

* * *

Ysolda's face had never been quite so pale in her life, of that she was sure. "What's the matter? Seen a ghost?" Feänor sneered, his tone full of contempt. Ysolda found herself slightly afraid of the man standing... _towering_ over her, whose face was twisted into a crooked scowl. The last time she had seen the Dragonborn - because this was not the Feänor she had once known - had been just before he had disappeared off the face of Nirn.

* * *

_Ysolda smiled as she and Feänor approached each other from across the market. "It's a fine day with you around," she had grinned, beginning the conversation with her usual greeting. She had never really meant it_ too_ literally before; she just liked the way people had beamed at it, sincerely pleased by the remark. However, the half-elf did have a way of lighting up a room with "that shit-eating grin," as Carlotta Valentia had once described it with a chuckle. That chuckle had turned into a proper laugh as Feänor had given Carlotta a confused look, wondering out loud whether he should have thanked her, or Shouted at her._

_Feänor gave Ysolda a quick smile in return._

_'_That could probably be classed as 'shit-eating,'_ she thought, grinning to herself._

_A grin of some sort always came quick to the lips of the inexplicably tall half-Nord, half-Bosmer. How someone with even the slightest bit of 'Wood Elf' blood in them came to be taller than most people was simply beyond her. His face had the typical angular, high cheek-boned structure of the Bosmer, and his hair was a deep brown mane currently hanging loose down to his shoulders. It covered his slightly pointed ears - the result of his mixed heritage - and would often fall in front of his piercing hazel eyes. Ysolda couldn't think of a time when those eyes hadn't been full of mirth, despite the fact that he danced with death on a near-daily basis. Warpaint the same colour as his hair ran along the top of his nose down to the bridge, where it would divert to slide beneath both his eyes. A large bow made out of what he referred to as 'glass,' was strapped to his back, along with a quiver of arrows made out of the same translucent material. A lifetime of experience with the bow had given Feänor's upper body massive strength. The half-elf was easily able to draw back a full-sized longbow to his chin without any noticeable effort, and his skill with it was legendary. He was wearing more 'glass,' his boots and breastplate made of the strong, light and surprisingly flexible material. His forearms were bare though, and he had always foregone a helmet in favour of a hood, which was currently thrown back._

_Ysolda's smile faded though, when she noticed that the grin he had shot her had never reached his eyes._

_"What's the matter, Feänor?" she asked, suddenly concerned._

_He gazed at her silently for a few moments, before beginning to speak hesitantly. "I'm… I'm going to leave for a while," he began._

_"Well, what's different there?" Ysolda chuckled, attempting to get the Dragonborn to lighten up a little. "You're always on the move, from one hold to the next; never staying long enough for me to get just_ one _story out of you_."

_"No, it's not that," he murmured, eyes downcast._

_She bit her lip in nervousness, chocolate eyes roving his face for any clue as to his predicament. Normally, Feänor would have had a swift reply defending himself, while placing a hand to his heart in mock distress. Now he was just staring at the ground, fidgeting with his hands._

_"I'm going to _leave_ for a _while_. I'm retreating to High Hrothgar to stay with the Greybeards," he exhaled. "Just for a couple of months," he assured quickly, his eyes still fixed on the cobblestones._

_Ysolda frowned for a moment, but her face cleared up as she smiled at him. "Good. You look like you need a rest, and no one deserves a couple months of time off like you," she affirmed gently, resting a hand on his arm. His face was a conflict of emotions for a moment, but it ended in a weak grin as his gaze met hers again. _

_"Excellent. Just thought you'd want to know that," he murmured quietly, seemingly preoccupied with his thoughts still._

_"Feänor," Ysolda gripped his arm tighter, "Is there anything else troubling you?"_

_Seemingly only just noticing her hand on his arm, he blinked at it, before grinning lazily. "Aside from the lack of blood flow in my left arm? Nope," he drawled, all worry gone from his features._

_Had she not had the sight of his anxious face imprinted into her memory, she might have thought she had imagined it all, considering how quickly he had returned to normal. Ysolda rolled her eyes and removed her hand from his arm, giggling a little as he held his limb close to his face for examination._

_"So, when are you leaving for High Hrothgar?" she asked, leaning against the boarded-up well in the centre of the square._

_Feänor sat down on the well, massaging his arm. "Now," he mused offhandedly._

_"Oh. Now? As in right now?" she croaked. "Isn't that, uh, a little soon?" she asked after a moment, strengthening her voice._

_Completely unaware of her distress, Feänor continued to examine his arm. "No, not really. I've bought all my supplies, and set all my affairs in order for the next couple of months. Vilkas will be acting-Harbinger. I've got someone stepping in for me at the College of Winterhold. Everything's all set, all I've got to do is leave," he replied absentmindedly._

'He's leaving now…'_ was all Ysolda could think of. A terrifying wave of anxiety and what she absolutely _refused_ to think of as lust sprung up on her, leaving her face looking somewhat horrified._

_Finally satisfied that his arm wasn't permanently damaged, Feänor got up again. He spun around to face her properly, the setting sun bathing his face in a glowing golden light. He looked down into her worried eyes and smiled, a smile that never quite met his unusually solemn eyes._

_"It's only a few months," he assured her, gently brushing a loose strand of hair away with a callused thumb._

_They stood like that for a few seconds, companionable silence eating up any words that might have been said. Lost in his sparkling hazel eyes, she suddenly tilted her head up and kissed him softly on the lips. Not a second later, Feänor withdrew hurriedly. Ysolda blinked, before realising what she had done. She had _kissed_ him._

_'_As if you could call that a kiss_,' a part of herself snorted._

_Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, Ysolda averted her eyes as she caught his completely bewildered gaze._

'Turns out it was lust,'_ that same irritating part of her murmured thoughtfully._

_Uterly aghast at her own behaviour, she risked a second glance at his face. He looked ecstatic, broken, and hateful all at once._

_Flushing an even redder colour, Ysolda gestured towards the big gates down the end of the street and mumbled, "You should probably get going, then."_

_She couldn't help but feel vaguely heartbroken as he brushed past her without another word and stalked away._

_It would be three months later that she learned that Feänor had never really gone to High Hrothgar. The three Companions - Vilkas, Farkas and Aela - had gone up to the monastery to seek their Harbinger. They had been stunned when they were told that the Dragonborn hadn't set foot inside the hermitage for close to a year. They returned to Whiterun saddened, and the news spread across the province that the Dragonborn had disappeared; and for ten, long years, it had stayed that way._

* * *

The years that had followed had not been kind to him. When he had left Whiterun that fateful day, he had been quite obviously just starting to reach the prime of his life. Yet here he stood before her, hair graying and face haggard. Looking in to his eyes, Ysolda searched desperately for that same spark of mirth that had always been present in her company. It wasn't there.

His eyes were terrifyingly empty.

"Gods, you look awful," she breathed.

"Why, thank you for noticing," he spat. Ysolda flinched.

The two stood in silence again, silently regarding one another. It was Feänor who broke the silence first.

"So, still deal in drugs?"

* * *

Feänor sneered as she winced at his words, but was genuinely concerned with her answer. He had noticed his hands were beginning to shake, and he couldn't afford to collapse in a fit. Not here. Not now.

"Th-That's what you remember about me?" she whispered, apparently shocked by his choice of words.

Outwardly, he grunted, "It's a fairly memorable, character-defining act."

Inwardly, somewhere deep inside, he flinched.

'_You should apologise-'_

**'Never.'**

He ruthlessly silenced the pleading, much to the satisfaction of the dra-

_'Don't think about them,'_ he hissed to himself.

Realising that she didn't respond to his question, he looked up to find her staring at him like he had slapped her.

"I need skooma," he explained bluntly.

Sighing at her look of confusion, he lifted his gently shaking hands up for her inspection. Her chocolate eyes widened as she realised he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms, and she looked up at him in pity. He hardened his gaze in response.

"Come with me," she murmured, and exited the room.

He followed her down the stairs and into the crowd. Feänor weaved through the throng of people without ever brushing up against anyone. To those who noticed his passing - and they were precious few indeed - he was simply a shadowed face in the crush. Years of practice with the Brotherhood and honed his natural ability to perfection, and had he wanted to be completely unnoticed, he would be as good as invisible to all. He noticed Ysolda turn around to look for him as she reached the door, and snickered when her eyes widened when she couldn't find him. He stepped out of the crowd, yet seemingly out of nowhere, and sneered when she jumped in fright.

"Time is of the essence here," he growled.

Ysolda swallowed, nodding her head weakly.

* * *

"I have all the ingredients, I just need to mix it together," Ysolda murmured quietly. "You can move into the bedroom," she gestured to the room on the right.

Feänor had been surprised at the the tiny, sparsely-furnished building that Ysolda called home as they had entered. A good portion of the house was taken up by the fire pit, and there was barely room enough for two people in either room. He had never assumed that the merchant-to-be was quite as poor as she turned out to be.

Sitting down at the small table in her bedroom, he picked up a book that was face-down on her table. His eyebrows rose at the title. "_The Return of the First Dragonborn,_" he murmured to himself. Turning to the first page, he attempted to read the words, with much difficulty. Cursing his shaking hands, he finally managed to still them enough to read:  
'_The Return of the First Dragonborn An Account of Miraak's defeat at the hands of Feänor, The Last Dragonborn: 4E 203. __Written by Frea of the Skaal.'  
_Flipping to where a piece of paper was marking the page Ysolda was currently at, Feänor found himself reading his own recount of the battle against Miraak. Quickly skimming over the text, Feänor bored of the book and placed it back onto the table again. Standing with a yawn, he moved over to the wardrobe where more books were stacked on top. Picking one at random, he was startled to realise that this one was about him too. The Dragonborn and the Eye of Magnus. Grabbing the other five books down, he found that all but one were about his exploits:  
_'The World-Eater's Demise.'_  
_'A Night to Remember.'_  
_'The Dragon and the Bear.'_  
_'The Taming of a Dragon.'_  
_'A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun.'_

"Feänor?" A timid voice called him out of his contemplation of the volumes in his grasp.

Ysolda held a bottle of skooma in her hands, but was looking at him and the books with something approaching mortification. Replacing the books back on top of the wardrobe, the half-elf held out his trembling hand for the skooma. Ysolda continued to stare with wide eyes. Clearing his throat loudly, the Nord woman visibly shook herself, and dropped the skooma into his palm. Acting quickly, Feänor drew a pipe out of a pouch on his belt, and emptied the contents of the bottle into the pipe. Lighting it with a lick of flame from his finger, he quickly inhaled, breathing in the addicting fumes. Holding up a hand for inspection, he grunted relief as the trembling began to cease. He took a few more deep breaths from the pipe, before bringing it out of his mouth.

"So, standard price?" he asked, hand moving to his coin-purse.

Ysolda flushed - an act he was now finding rather appealing - and shook her head.

"Free of charge. It's a terrible thing to be suffering withdrawals without a source," she replied quietly, her voice still full of pity for his situation, no matter how mortified she had been when he had discovered her book collection.

Feänor glanced around the tiny, sparsely-furnished residence exaggeratedly before looking back at her again. "You sure?" he queried, arching an eyebrow.

She raised her chin defiantly. "Yes I am," she shot back, her eyes daring him to argue the point more.

"Very well then," he snorted.

Leaning back in his chair, he began to take even puffs from his pipe. She took a seat across from him, and they sat in stiff silence, regarding one another.

* * *

Soon, Feänor stirred, and Ysolda looked up from her book.

She had continued reading, regardless of her embarrassment that the subject of the volume was sitting across from her. The Dragonborn had finished his pipe, but wasn't looking like he was affected by the skooma at all. Maybe his dragon blood didn't respond to the drug's effects, but he was clearly addicted to it nonetheless.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you," he sneered, and Ysolda's eyes lowered again, unused to him being so_ cold_.

But suddenly, the meaning of what he said hit her. "You're not leaving are you?" she asked, horrified that he may be disappearing once more. He had only just come back, for Talos' sake!

"'Course I am," he shrugged. "I hadn't meant to be found in the first place."

Gods, he _was_ leaving. Again. He can't do this_ again_!

_'It's so… so… _selfish_ of him!'_

"Please, Feänor! Just, um… stay for a cup of tea, or something. Just don't leave yet!" she begged, getting up to block his path.

He arched his eyebrow at her obvious desperation, but didn't move. His face remained perfectly still, and his eyes revealed nothing. It was only because she had known him for years that she knew he was busy arguing internally with himself.

Finally, he exhaled slightly, and grunted, "I suppose I could do with a cup of tea."

Ysolda breathed an inward sigh of relief. She had delayed him, but not persuaded him.

"I'll go put on the kettle, and then we can talk. You, sit down," she commanded, attempting to take control of the situation. His other eyebrow rose to join its brother, but he said nothing, sitting down like she said. As she left the room to fill the jug from the barrel of water in the corner of the kitchen, her brain went into overdrive. How would she be able to stop the Dragonborn from leaving? She sure as hell couldn't stop him physically, nor could she persuade the man. Then it clicked. _Arcadia._ Grabbing the full kettle, she made her way to the door. Opening it up, she began to walk outside when the Dragonborn's gauntleted hand clenched around her arm in an iron grip.

"Where are you going?" he growled.

"I'm just going to fill the kettle from the well," she replied indignantly. She stared up at him undaunted, and willed her voice not to quaver.

"Do not mention me to anyone," he warned with a growl, "Because I'll not be here if you return with company."

"Don't be so paranoid," she retorted, rolling her eyes.

He searched her eyes once more, before reluctantly letting go and retreating back into the bedroom. Adjusting the sleeve of her dress, she stepped outside into the cool night air.

* * *

Arcadia woke to a quiet knocking on her door.

"Arcadia!" a quiet voice hissed.

Rolling out of bed slowly, and stumbling to the door in a dressing gown, the woman threw it open with a grumble. Her brow creased as she recognised Ysolda in front of her, holding a kettle in her hands.

"I need a sleeping draught!" she whispered, glancing around suspiciously.

Arcadia blinked, poking her head outside to glance up at the sky. "It's the middle of the night, Ysolda," she groaned.

"Shh!" Ysolda breathed, holding a finger to her lips. "Not so loud!"

The ageing herbalist's brow creased in confusion, before her sleep-addled brain just told her to find a draught to get the Nord merchant off of her doorstep as quickly as possible. Shuffling over to the shelf on the counter, she grabbed a small grey bottle and handed it to the merchant.

"Here, for your sleep," she mumbled, placing the vial in Ysolda's hands.

"Thank you! The woman beamed, her voice barely audible, "I'll pay you in the morning!"

"Sure, whatever," Arcadia yawned. "Goodnight Ysolda."

Arcadia shut the door behind her, and glanced over at the potion shelf. It looked like she had just given away the last draught.

"Looks like I'll need to brew more to use on Farengar," she mused with another yawn, before trudging back to her bed.

* * *

Ysolda struggled to keep her face calm as she entered her home again, hiding the small vial of liquid behind the kettle.

"It's just me," she hissed to Feänor-

-'s empty chair.

Glancing around in horror, her mouth went dry.

'_Oh gods, he left! He couldn't be bothered waiting and he left!'_ she thought in dismay.

A small flash of light caught her eye and she turned back around to discover Feänor sitting back in his previously empty chair with a smirk on his face.

Catching her puzzled look, he sneered, "Invisibility. Useful little trick. So did you get the water?"

"The water?" she murmured, confused. "What water?"

"For the kettle, ice-brain," he growled.

Mentally slapping herself, she attempted to cover her mistake, "Oh right! The water! Yes, I got it here," she lifted the kettle up as proof.

She hoped he would put her forgetfulness down to her obvious distress when she had walked in and found the room empty, and not to any sort of guilty conscience. Shrugging, and sitting back in his chair with a sigh, it was clear that he wasn't suspicious at all. Hanging the kettle over the fire, and stowing the vial in her pocket, she returned to her seat.

They proceeded to stare at one another for the next few minutes. At first, Ysolda attempted conversation. When asked about himself, Feänor would simply not answer. He would never speak unless she spoke to him, and even then he would keep his replies as short and as blunt as possible. Eventually, she just stopped trying, and they fell into a stiff silence. The merchant sighed as she studied the half-elf. She missed years gone by when he would crack a joke with his trademark grin, and she would nearly fall to the ground with laughter. She missed his voice, back when it wasn't laden with sarcasm and hostility. She missed his damned smile.

The whistling of the kettle tore Ysolda out of her thoughts, and she excused herself to go prepare the tea. As she made her way over to the fire pit, she Pouring the tea carefully, Ysolda carefully slipped the sleeping draught out of her pocket, before surreptitiously adding it to the left cup. Placing the now empty vial back into her pocket, she picked up a cup in each hand, and made her way back over to Feänor. Placing the_ left_ cup beside the half-elf, she sat back down and sipped her tea. She blinked in surprise when Feänor held up a frosty hand and cooled the air around his cup. When he was satisfied with the temperature, he lifted the cup to his mouth and sculled the lot. He proceeded to wipe his mouth with a gloved hand, then stood up and pushed his chair back under the table.

"Well, I'd best be going now," he began, stifling a yawn. "Thanks for the tea, and the drugs."

Ysolda bit her lip, concerned. '_How long does it take for the draught to take effect?'_ she thought worriedly.

Noticing her facial expression, the Dragonborn sneered, suddenly bitter once more.

"It's not as if I was going to stay just because you offered me some tea, was it?" he smirked.

He frowned though, as he yawned again. Shaking himself, his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her.

'_Just delay him a little longer.'_

"Is there really no way I can persuade you?" Ysolda pleaded, placing her cup down on the table, then standing in his way once more.

Feänor raised an eyebrow in mock thoughtfulness, leering down at her chest. Ysolda gasped when she realised where he was staring.

She angrily slapped him across the cheek. "How _dare_ you," she spat, disgusted.

He spun his head back around to glare back at her, "You said anything, love," he hissed mockingly, a twisted sneer dancing across his face.

Furiously ignoring the way her heart leapt at being called_ 'love,'_ she met his angry glare easily. He cracked another yawn, and firmly pushed her out of his way, despite her protests. Marching over to the door, his hand grasped the door handle, and he gave her a mock salute in farewell. He yawned again as he started to pull the door open, but his legs suddenly gave out beneath him, and he staggered back towards her and clutched the wall for support.

He mumbled something to himself, "... this isn't normal…" before suddenly he jerked his head up to glare at her, his eyes blackening with anger and horrified realisation.

She shrank back in sudden fear, but he crossed the distance swiftly - yet swaying slightly - and grabbed her arms.

"What did you put in my drink?" he hissed, his hazel eyes searching her face, a sickening fear beginning to eclipse them.

Ysolda hissed in pain as his grip on her arms tightened, but he did not stop.

"What was it!?" he roared, his voice betraying the dread he was feeling.

As her gaze met his, she was frozen by the sheer terror in his eyes.

'_He isn't himself. This isn't Feänor,'_ she thought numbly.

His hands suddenly let go of her arms, and he began to fumble at his belt, tugging at a vial of red liquid. He hurriedly pulled the stopper off, and began to bring it to his mouth.

It never made it.

Lashing out with her arm in desperation, her hand knocked the vial out of his grasp and it fell to the floor where it shattered, precious anti-poison spilling everywhere. The room was silent as the swaying Feänor looked down at his last hope, now shattered on the flagstones. Suddenly he span around - mindless rage contorting his face - and his fist connected with her cheek. The world went white with pain as she felt herself being thrown to the ground by the blow. There was the sound of glass shattering, and her side screamed in pain as broken glass ripped into her skin. Clutching her suddenly bleeding side, Ysolda gasped with pain as the world came back to her. Her terrified eyes instantly snapped up to the Dragonborn, darting between his clenched fists and his bitter eyes.

'_Divines, he struck me!'_

A choked sob escaped her lips, and she shrank back from him as he took an unsteady step towards her. Her tear-blurred vision shot back up to his eyes again, and noticed... something else. Was it fear? Horror at what he had done? The Dragonborn staggered back abruptly, and he held up his wavering hand to her.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he whispered, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto her bed. Unconscious.

Ysolda slowly stood up, and wiped the tearstains on her cheeks away with the back of her hand. Nervously approaching the bed, still clutching her bleeding side with her other hand, she exhaled a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Slightly stunned that her plan had worked, Ysolda stood beside the sleeping half-elf.

'_What do I do now?'_ she thought desperately. '_I can't keep him drugged permanently.'_

Then it her.

_'The Companions.'_

* * *

**A/N:**

Welp. This chapter was longer than I expected. I'm honestly still not happy with the last parts of this chapter, and I'll probably come back and rewrite it at some time. For now though, I just want to get this part over with so I can move on with the wider plot.

**Until next time,**  
**Dextrous.**


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